How stupid they had been! They knew Tuuq was out here. He would remember the cove just as they did. He had come, and waited.
Rake lifted his boot and crashed it down on the ice, lifted and crashed it again, and again. Tuuq kept his hold. If Rake succeeded and the ice broke, both he and Tuuq would disappear into freezing water. Their survival wouldn’t be more than a few seconds. But it would be a different kind of death and give a clear run for Henry and Joan to get to the base.
The ice shattered, but not under them. Rake’s pounding impacted further along where a whole section gave way, splitting like an earthquake, creating a gaping hole, slabs listing into the water which spilled over and ran down towards them.
Drawing on last reserves of energy, Rake pushed his chest high enough to smash his forehead against Tuuq’s skull, hitting him on the bridge of his nose, loosening the hold on his neck. Rake turned his body, freeing an arm to drive his fist into Tuuq’s crotch. In those hair-trigger seconds, it was the best Rake could do, and it wasn’t enough. Tuuq slashed his hand across Rake’s face, cutting his cheek. He got his fingers back around Rake’s throat, harder this time, more urgent, dispensing with the luxury of the long kill. Tuuq fought as if untouched, blood streaming down his face. Rake was suffocating. Strength failed him. His arm wouldn’t move. His leg couldn’t lift his boot. His muscles were gone. He felt no pain around his throat. His will was stripped away by the reality that an oxygen-starved brain would not function and soon he would die. Tuuq loomed, his head slanted back, waiting, his gaze intent through the goggles. He was the victor. Rake saw Carrie, face caked with soot from a bomb. Then she went and there was haze. Rake’s mind played memories. His brain was without oxygen. There was no road to the greater good. All that killing had been for nothing. Soldiers die; it was his turn now.
A smile lit Tuuq’s eyes. He reared back and let out that dog howl, keeping up the cry as he leaned forward, gripping harder, squeezing, his voice surging and rolling louder and shriller next to Rake’s ear, that primeval wail of death that had haunted Rake for so long. As he howled, Tuuq twisted Rake’s windpipe, kneading his fingers in the last act of killing.
Then, suddenly, his hold broke.
Ondola smashed a metal ice pole across Tuuq’s head, gashing his skull. Tuuq toppled. Ondola hit him again, slicing the pole up under his jaw. Rake rolled himself out as Tuuq pulled a knife and scrambled to his feet.
‘Go!’ shouted Ondola.
Rake drew freezing air into his lungs, and pushed himself up. He stumbled, found his footing. Ondola, his own knife in hand, swung towards Tuuq’s face. Tuuq side-stepped and hurled himself forward, hands clasped together, knife held like an executioner, and used his power to bring it down with absolute force towards Ondola’s neck. Ondola shifted an inch. The blade sliced his cheek and Ondola crumpled under Tuuq’s weight. Rake started towards him.
Henry’s voice. ‘Rake. Over here!’
Bent double, Ondola staggered, legs buckling. Tuuq drew back the knife to plunge it into the exposed back of his neck. But Ondola was ready for him. In a lightning move he deflected the arm and sank his knife into it.
‘I’ve got him!’ Ondola yelled. ‘Go!’
Tuuq crashed his elbow into Ondola’s head, bringing them both back to the ground.
‘Now, Rake.’ Henry’s voice. Sensible, firm. ‘We need you here.’
Rake ignored him. Tuuq’s right arm was raised to plunge the knife into Ondola. Rake propelled himself forward, leaping up to kick Tuuq in the head, or anywhere to deflect the blade. His boot struck Tuuq’s shoulder, but it was enough to skew his balance. Tuuq fell back, his hands empty, the knife embedded above Ondola’s sternum, deep in his throat.
The ear-splitting fire of an automatic weapon splayed across the ice. Henry emptied a magazine towards Tuuq who jerked as a round thudded into his body, but moved quickly, using the ice as cover. Bullets cut through in a circle around him, but missed. There was silence. Rake needed to help Ondola, but he couldn’t until he dealt with Tuuq. Henry fired a burst of three, stopped. He had no target. Then came a tearing roar. Water sprayed up like a geyser and the frozen sea tilted as if in an earthquake. Clawing at the edges of broken ice Tuuq slid down, his blood trailing through the water.
‘Brother!’ Tuuq cried out in Russian. ‘Help me!’ Rake ran to him, holding out an arm, an instinctive reaction to anyone caught in bad ice. Tuuq’s face caught in reflected moonlight had lost its hardness. For a flash, Rake imagined his father there. He lay flat on strong ice and stretched out to take Tuuq’s hand. As Tuuq reached for him, Henry fired twice, one shot in the forehead and one straight through the mouth. Tuuq slid silently into the water.
Ondola lay still, gloves holding the knife blade, keeping it in his throat to stem the bleeding. He managed a smile. ‘I told you… to go…’ Rake pulled out a bandage and a pack of blood clotting agent which he tore open.
‘Don’t,’ said Ondola. He didn’t move his hands from the knife. His eyes were clear. ‘This is… a good place to die…’
Rake dropped the bandage to put his hand on Ondola. ‘You’re a good man,’ he said.
‘You’re my brother.’
‘Stay with us. We’ll get help.’
‘Go save my daughter.’ Another smile. Frailer. A last spark of life in his eyes. ‘Tell her I’m not all bad.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Stephanie paced the dining room in the British Embassy, back and forth between the mantelpiece and the long table that was splashed with mid-morning winter light. Maps and charts lay among laptops, tablets, and part-drunk cups of coffee. Harry leant against the wall in a far corner, working contacts on the phone with a second line open to the Situation Room watch commander.
She had repeatedly rung Carrie’s phone and got no reply. She kept asking herself what it might mean and dealt with that by protecting herself in diplomat thought: Don’t speculate. Just keep working. She dialed Carrie, then Grizlov, alternately, one after the other, aware that minutes were ticking down to Swain’s deadline to take out the Russian base. She understood his reasoning. She hated that she was part of it and that Carrie was there. Stephanie owed her big time for standing in as a bar-room therapist that night they hit the town in Moscow when Harry was being such a shit. She knew that diplomats at the American and British embassies in Moscow were burning contacts to get to Grizlov or anyone who could make sense of what was happening. But they had all gone to ground.
Then Grizlov picked up, his voice filled with tension. ‘Hold, Steph. Stay on the line.’ A click. Emptiness. She mimed to Harry that she had Grizlov. But he was already looking her way, must have heard from the Situation Room. Grizlov was back, no charm, no introduction, taut to breaking. ‘Vitruk’s on his own, Steph.’
The finality of his tone brought goose bumps to Stephanie’s neck. ‘Can you stop him?’
‘I need time. If you strike, we have to strike back.’
‘We don’t have time, Serg. You’ve got to—’
Grizlov ended the call with a terse ‘I’ll get back to you.’ Prusak was immediately on the line. ‘Voice analysis is coming up as genuine.’
Genuine what, she thought angrily. Her palms were sweating. She was shaking all over. All the fucking gadgetry in the world and they still couldn’t stop blowing each other up. She kept herself measured and said, ‘The President must stand down the strike, Matt. We’ve talked to one of the good guys.’